Pink Spirals
by failedALIAS
Summary: "The truth poured on her like a deluge, seeping into her mind, filling in each crack of doubt and unearthing every root of denial. She never felt so hollow, and now she knew why. She was alone." What if Spinel was a lot less competent, and after failing to steal an injector or rejuvinator, finds herself at the wrong beach house as well.


**Prologue**

_She pulled and pulled at bubblegum-colored hair, looping fingers through messy strands for grip and tugging to rend it from her scalp. Eyes stung with salt as tears flooded her vision, blurring the image she hated so much which faced her, before spilling over down her cheeks. Her throat felt clogged with heaving sobs, chest shaking up and down at an uneven, panicked rhythm. _

_The truth poured on her like a deluge, seeping into her mind, filling in each crack of doubt and unearthing every root of denial. She never felt so hollow, and now she knew why. _

_She was alone. _

**Chapter One: Of Biscuits and Brownies and Alien Invaders **

Dusty woke to a hangover that covered her body like a blanket, which she supposed gave her something at least, because her actual blanket seemed to be missing. So, in addition to her sweating, nausea, dry mouth and throbbing headache, she awoke to the invasive coastal breeze that waltzed in through her open window and around her room like it owned the place. The distant sound of seagull squawking like tiny hammers drumming on her skull.

Dusty decided she hated the ocean.

Oddly enough, she noticed, her toes were the only part of her that was warm, which didn't make any sense, since her circulation was only (slightly) better than her personality. _How the fuck is... oh right, I fell asleep in my boots again. _

It couldn't be said that sleep for Dusty on a Friday night was anything one could fit into a schedule or routine. It was more akin to the inevitable end to some active disaster, like the final, quiet halt of a train wreck that's flung off the rails. Or the last convulse of a dying animal. Or the teacups at FunLand. This was true for Friday and... shit, well, most nights when she really thought about it. And just like the lawsuits those cups of death attracted, hangovers followed her sleep more often than not.

She was fun. And really, really had to piss.

Dusty groaned and clumsily gyrated out of bed like some sort of impaired, four-legged spider. After staggering into her bathroom, nearly tripping over the dozens of bras scattering the tiled floor (only about half of which she technically paid for) Dusty began the ritual of all her mornings: splashing freezing water into her eyes as she screamed expletives at her past self. After abusing the sleep out of her eye sockets, she slid into the shower for a quick, introspective wash. As the showerhead blasted her sore back on pulse, and she roughly scrubbed the soles of her feet, Dusty idly wondered if the name "Head and Shoulders" was intended as an attack on her personally. _Who the hell could be fucked to buy more than one bottle of soap?_

She may have peed in the shower.

It was around when she'd pulled her bleach-stained Spongebob shirt over her head that she heard the first series of knocks. Dusty ignored it, hoping the noise was the symptom of some undiagnosed schizophrenia and not anything she'd have to go outside for. She started looking for cereal, pretty sure she had some Frankenberry Crunch dust she could eat. More knocking. _Or maybe a brain tumor. Those can make you hear things, right? _The knocking was now accompanied by muffled shouting. She could have googled if that was also a symptom of a malignant brain tumor, but she left her phone on her bed, which was technically a further walking distance than her front door. _Time to face the world, I guess. _

—

Even through the mesh screen she could gauge the level of annoyance on Liz's face. Dusty unlocked the flimsy door and poked her head out to get a better measurement. Liz was glaring into Dusty's soul, had her hands crossed, littered two gum stick wrappers on the deck, and was breathing loudly out her nose. So about a 6. She was also chewing very loudly. Liz had a long dark mohawk with purple highlights, with both sides of her hair cut short, and one of those eyebrows with those cuts in them that Dusty simultaneously hated and also found pretty hot. Liz's eyes were a lighter shade of brown than her own, but Dusty's eyes were almost black anywhere but under direct light. Liz wore ripped faded jeans long out of style, a blue-and-white varsity jacket for a school neither of them had ever heard of, and black combat boots. Dusty said this constantly, but Liz was such a butch she was practically a parody of herself.

"Have I told you you're such a butch that you're a parody of yourself?"

"I hate you," Liz said, barring her gritted teeth, which oozed gum. "And you say that constantly. Why the fuck did you take so long? Roll off somebody I should know about? My gum even lost its flavor."

Dusty waved her hand dismissively. "Bullshit. You're exaggerating. I've been watching you for at least fifteen seconds, and you haven't blown a single bubble yet, meaning you just started those sticks, you oral-fixation freak."

"What are you, the Sherlock Fucking Holmes of bubblegum? Are you gonna warn me my back is about to slip a disk from how my jaw is moving?" Liz said. "Have you memorized 150 different textures of ABC gum?"

Dusty moved her gaze down. "Thanks for the wrappers by the way. My patio desperately needed more trash."

Liz kept going. "Are we about to solve the mystery of The Sign of the FiveGum?"

"Okay, you can stop now. Please."

"No, I have a couple more. I wasted three years of my life before failing to get an English degree — I'm gonna fucking get my money's worth." After pausing, and catching her breath, Liz finally managed to get a decent bubble out.

Dusty stuck her finger out and popped it.

Liz swatted at her hand, but just barely missed. She groaned, "Why are all my friends bitches or straight guys?"

Dusty shrugged. "I'm not a straight bitch."

Liz smiled slightly. "That's why you're my favorite. Which is sad. At least you don't send me 70-page-long PDFs at 3 AM."

"Again?" Dusty said, surprised. "Alice should realize that by boring us half-to-death she's more likely to make us all fascists than prepared to die for glorious Marxist revolution. Lenin or Mao?"

"I think Shakur...? It was an excerpt, maybe. Back to you being a bitch, please tell me you've at least washed your hands today." Liz said, looking into Dusty's eyes, pleading. Almost hopeful.

Almost.

Dusty scratched her head, thinking of an answer. Taking too long to answer. "I took a shower?"

"Did you rinse your hands after washing your feet and fucking asscrack?"

"Anyway, you didn't tell me why you were here," Dusty said, changing the subject. Liz pretended to dry gag before spitting her gum out over the deck's ledge.

"The fuck do you mean? 4:30 is when we agreed to meet up. Wait, did you _just _get up?"

"No," Dusty lied. She peered up at the sky for the first time that day. Well, it did _seem _like the sun was lowering. Liz noticed and shook her head.

"Well, look, you didn't miss much. All the gay aliens sang a musical number starring that weird nerd in the jacket. It was kinda annoying, if I'm being honest." She pulled out another stick of gum from her pocket, unwrapping it quickly and idly tossing the wrapper aside to join its brethren at her feet. "Kinda catchy though, I'll admit."

"Ugh, they always fucking are. Hang on," Dusty turned back inside, leaving the door open for Liz. "You said it's 4:30, right? That's _almost_ after five. I'm pre-gaming."

"How are you even alive?" Liz asked incredulously, following after and slamming the flimsy door behind herself. "And it's, uh..." she pulled out her phone, "5:02 now. You're just fucking late."

"Well, even better. Now I don't feel inappropriate."

—

The Fin wasn't exactly a bar, per say. It was _technically _an off-brand Red Lobster that served alcohol. But, it was preferable in selection and ambiance to the gas station that sold the two Four Loko flavors with unregulatedly high alcohol content. You know, the good shit. So, although pathetically tame by regular standards, the year-old establishment was a welcome change of pace to the normal vibe of Beach City, which had always been too unsettlingly TV-Y7 for Dusty's liking. When her friends all got together but couldn't be arsed to drive all the way to Charm City, this is where they went.

What was so fascinating about The Fin to Dusty, though, was the rapid evolution of the establishment's brand. Having started here fourteen months ago as a proud shameless dime-store crabshack rip-off, the restaurant had made a remarkable reinvention of itself since then. You could almost witness in the decor and general layout, the losing battle of will the earnest yet desperate owner had gone through. Though, by the moment it became evident that this intended family-friendly restaurant only attracted one specific clientele — buzzed out 20-somethings — the battle had already been lost.

The dim yet warm chandelier light fixtures were pulled out, replaced with multi-colored stage lights and Christmas lights which tangled through the nails and staples which held them to the wall like ivy. Two whole rows of booths had been knocked out, replaced by a common area for mingling and grinding on strangers' crotches, in front of what used to be the greeting/reservation area that had now been cleared out and filled by a structurally questionable stage for live performances and open-mic nights. The classic rock radio had been ditched for a 24-hour "lofi hip-hop beats to study to" livestream on Tubetube. Not the one with the girl from Wolf Children, cause that was copyright claimed. The one with the raccoon.

This is what Dusty thought about while her three friends — Liz, Alice, and Tierra — argued about how far they should take the slogan "Eat the Rich." She had to admit, though: a new, albeit limited supply of livestock with a fraction of the carbon footprint of pigs was a pragmatic proposal. Also, Alice was staring at her.

"What do you think, Dusty? Should it be unrestrictedly cross-generational, or only include the elites' children that are over 18?" She looked serious.

"Uhhhh, well," Dusty stalled. She didn't really want to commit to a discussion about cannibalism. She wasn't even really hungry at the moment, having filled up on the complimentary cheese biscuits — a remaining relic of a bygone era of crushed seafood dreams. "I think so, yes. I watched Snowpiercer last week, and that movie seemed to suggest baby meat tastes pretty good. I'm gonna side with the Pro-baby eating camp."

Alice slapped down on the table with both hands, before looking smugly over at Tierra, who, despite not listening, Dusty could only deduce was part of the anti-baby-eating brigade. _Cowards. _Tierra just rolled her eyes. "Yeah, see how far you get with that slogan: 'Join the fight for worker freedom! We eat babies!'"

"Hell, I'm ready to jump a cop as we speak for that," Liz chimed in, sarcastically. Suddenly, Dusty saw something in the distance that made her perk up.

"Are those brownies?" It was a man, walking around the common area, expertly dodging through swinging bodies, with a massive platter of what appeared to be brownies.

Tierra, who was facing away from where Dusty was looking, turned her head around, to scan the crowd. "Uh, yeah, appears so. Why?"

"Uh, why? Cause I'm tired of just being drunk?" Dusty said, giving Tierra a look like it should be obvious.

"You don't even know what's in them. They're probably just normal brownies." Tierra turned her head back, and pointed out at the man, who was now holding the platter before a distant booth. "He's wearing a restaurant uniform. Probably just free samples."

Dusty narrowed her eyes, analyzing the man, putting her brain on overdrive. "How can you say it's a restaurant uniform? Doesn't look that way to me."

"A polo and slacks? Seriously?"

"He could just be a douchebag!"

Tierra shook her head. "Your desperation has blinded you. Pathetic."

"Okay, anime villain," Dusty said, standing up. "I'll fucking see for myself."

—

The rest of their night out had gone uneventfully. Dusty discovered the only surprise waiting for her in the brownie she nabbed was diced pecans, and by her third drink Liz cut her off. She groaned about it and complained, but it actually made her feel a little good when someone did something for her that wasn't hidden in twelve layers of irony.

Liz had always hated it when she got shitfaced.

As Dusty wandered to the outskirts of Beach City toward her beach house, nestled across the dunes from the water tower-thing, she thought about Liz. Thought about the drinking and partying that brought them together, the drinking and partying that they did together, and the drinking and more drinking (on Dusty's part) that split them up. _Maybe we should get back together. I think she still loves me..._

Her gratitude to Liz gradually soured to bitterness as she kicked sand along the path to her house. When she was alone like this, in the quiet, she felt hollow. She usually at least had some warmth from a buzz or, better yet, blinding drunkenness to drown her insides out. Liz probably didn't feel this way right now. Why the fuck did she have the right to decide what was best? _So glad_ she could glide home on those feelings of charity and responsibility, while Dusty dragged herself through a muck of shit and self-loathing. _That's right. I almost forgot why we broke up. She's a self-righteous cunt. _

She felt like punching something. She felt like punching some_one. _Could she effectively punch herself? She'd never tried that, actually. Should she go to therapy again? No, without a court order, seeing Dr Jackson just felt pathetic. _Maybe I can punch someone, get a court order, and _then _see Dr Jackson, _Dusty mused to herself. But then, she didn't want to risk _not _getting a court order and just being, you know, in jail. GoodWill Hunting made this look way easier. _Ugh, why couldn't those fucking brownies have anything in them? _Dusty didn't want to be in her house right now. The loneliness was somehow worse in a box.

The shadow of her house fell on her immediately upon turning around the dune and seeing it, like it was already pulling her in, ready to suffocate her. It was actually stretched further than it normally was and... disconnected... from the shadow that actually stretched out from her house. And circular. What? Dusty looked up.

"Oh shit."

Floating above her head by several dozen meters was a red, teardrop-shaped UFO, which hummed and stayed perfectly still in the air. It didn't even bob. Weren't UFOs supposed to bob? There was also a... shadow on top of the thing, that appeared to be pacing back and forth, quickly. Like it was impatient. It... turned towards her. _Oh shit. _

The shadow was very, um, _spiky. Yeah, that works for a first impression_. Though distant, Dusty could see that whatever this thing was was spindly and spiky. That couldn't be good. Spiky things were usually bad. _Oh shit. _

It bent down, leaning over the edge with its hands balled up into fists. It yelled, "HEY! ARE YOU STEVEN UNIVERSE?"

So, those brownies _did _have something in them after all.

_Oh shit. _


End file.
